Back from Oz
As I mentioned last week, I attended the 36th Annual Summer Conference for the Society of Children Book Writers and Illustrator's in Los Angeles. The Society managed to hold the first 33 conferences without me, but it's safe to say that they're stuck with me for a while.
Each year I look forward to this event: the comradery, the charged atmosphere of enthusiasm, the excellent workshops. It's a welcomed opportunity to mingle with fellow writers, who like yourself, spend far too much time writing in front of a keyboard, or marking-up freshly printed pages beyond the point of recognition. What's amazing is that somehow all of us manage to love this craft so much that we gather to talk about it in our free time. We exchange ideas and fears and personal information about our writing routines so that we can glean a fresh perspective, or renew drained enthusiasm. We travel to conferences like this so that we can become superheroes, and then like Batman or the Lone Ranger return home to our loyal sidekicks -- our computers -- with whom we will perform extraordinary feats with vim and vigor aplenty.
The conference started Friday. It ended Monday. And It's safe to say that I'm exhausted, just as I'm sure all the other attendees are, but once again it was wonderful. For me the conference was a success. I even returned home with enough enthusiasm to be able to strut up to my computer this morning and shout: "Hey little buddy... I'mmm Baaack!"
Of course I experienced a mild let down when my little buddy, my sidekick -- my laptop -- failed to respond appropriately. I pounded my chest as I thrust it outward. I strutted around the room like a victorious Napoleon returning to Paris, waiting for my laudatory greeting. And then, looking more like a confused Tarzan taking a college entrance exam than like a confident Napoleon, I remembered something. Something important. After pulling on my hair -- and shouting, "Oh God, how could I have? -- I bowed my head and I apologized to my laptop. I had forgotten to take him to the conference. I begged for my sidekick's forgiveness, using my best words reserved for just such a groveling occasion. Words that I was sure rarely passed over a superhero's lips. Once peaceful order was restored to my secret superhero retreat, I began to type this blogging entry.
Sometime in the next few days I'll recap what I thought were some of the highlights from this conference. I'll also post some of my pictures. But before I finish this entry, I'd like to mention that in addition to this SCBWI event doing all the above mentioned things for all the attendees, it also performs a private function for me. It does so because, in that private place I call my head, there is a standing personal milestone. A marker if you will.
Writing to become a published author is a journey, and for most, a long and lonely one. When I first attended this annual conference I had been on that journey for only a few short months. Therefore, when this event rolls around every year I consider it a reminder of my starting point. And when the event brochure arrives in the mail I stand there, holding it in my hands. And after a moment or two passes, I look back and I count the number of months I've been traveling. Then, realizing how long I've traveled, I shake my head.
It hasn't been all that long really (about two and a half years). But this year while I held my brochure I experienced something pretty cool. This year I also turned and I looked forward. And when I did I saw the end of my journey... my getting published.
All of us unpublished writers dream about it. And when we do we can't help but use that tool we love to use in our work, our imagination. And before we know it we find ourselves embellishing the place we know we'll be a year or two from now. But I actually saw it, my getting published, and it was the real thing, clear as day. Honest.
"Hah," you say.
But I respond by telling you that I know what I saw, and it wasn't some distant fuzzy blob of white light labeled "galaxy" by an astronomer which even though you stare at it with strained eyes remains to be nothing more than a distant fuzzy blob of white light labeled "galaxy" by an astronomer. No, what I saw was as identifiable as the stars that shine in Orion's belt.
What I saw was that my book was not that far from becoming something publishable. That it could make it into a bookstore some day. And that if not this book, then maybe my next. It doesn't matter, because what I saw was that I had the ability to produce a book of publishable quality, and also, as an editor critiquing my work at the conference confirmed, something of interest.
I think there are some published authors reading this blog who know what vision I'm talking about. I also think there are those unpublished writers, tough critics of their own work, who know what vision I'm talking about. But vision or no vision, my journey continues. And as usual, I write away, a superhero in my own mind performing extraordinary feats. And even if my feats aren't all that extraordinary, well hey, at least those performed by my characters are.
Each year I look forward to this event: the comradery, the charged atmosphere of enthusiasm, the excellent workshops. It's a welcomed opportunity to mingle with fellow writers, who like yourself, spend far too much time writing in front of a keyboard, or marking-up freshly printed pages beyond the point of recognition. What's amazing is that somehow all of us manage to love this craft so much that we gather to talk about it in our free time. We exchange ideas and fears and personal information about our writing routines so that we can glean a fresh perspective, or renew drained enthusiasm. We travel to conferences like this so that we can become superheroes, and then like Batman or the Lone Ranger return home to our loyal sidekicks -- our computers -- with whom we will perform extraordinary feats with vim and vigor aplenty.
The conference started Friday. It ended Monday. And It's safe to say that I'm exhausted, just as I'm sure all the other attendees are, but once again it was wonderful. For me the conference was a success. I even returned home with enough enthusiasm to be able to strut up to my computer this morning and shout: "Hey little buddy... I'mmm Baaack!"
Of course I experienced a mild let down when my little buddy, my sidekick -- my laptop -- failed to respond appropriately. I pounded my chest as I thrust it outward. I strutted around the room like a victorious Napoleon returning to Paris, waiting for my laudatory greeting. And then, looking more like a confused Tarzan taking a college entrance exam than like a confident Napoleon, I remembered something. Something important. After pulling on my hair -- and shouting, "Oh God, how could I have? -- I bowed my head and I apologized to my laptop. I had forgotten to take him to the conference. I begged for my sidekick's forgiveness, using my best words reserved for just such a groveling occasion. Words that I was sure rarely passed over a superhero's lips. Once peaceful order was restored to my secret superhero retreat, I began to type this blogging entry.
Sometime in the next few days I'll recap what I thought were some of the highlights from this conference. I'll also post some of my pictures. But before I finish this entry, I'd like to mention that in addition to this SCBWI event doing all the above mentioned things for all the attendees, it also performs a private function for me. It does so because, in that private place I call my head, there is a standing personal milestone. A marker if you will.
Writing to become a published author is a journey, and for most, a long and lonely one. When I first attended this annual conference I had been on that journey for only a few short months. Therefore, when this event rolls around every year I consider it a reminder of my starting point. And when the event brochure arrives in the mail I stand there, holding it in my hands. And after a moment or two passes, I look back and I count the number of months I've been traveling. Then, realizing how long I've traveled, I shake my head.
It hasn't been all that long really (about two and a half years). But this year while I held my brochure I experienced something pretty cool. This year I also turned and I looked forward. And when I did I saw the end of my journey... my getting published.
All of us unpublished writers dream about it. And when we do we can't help but use that tool we love to use in our work, our imagination. And before we know it we find ourselves embellishing the place we know we'll be a year or two from now. But I actually saw it, my getting published, and it was the real thing, clear as day. Honest.
"Hah," you say.
But I respond by telling you that I know what I saw, and it wasn't some distant fuzzy blob of white light labeled "galaxy" by an astronomer which even though you stare at it with strained eyes remains to be nothing more than a distant fuzzy blob of white light labeled "galaxy" by an astronomer. No, what I saw was as identifiable as the stars that shine in Orion's belt.
What I saw was that my book was not that far from becoming something publishable. That it could make it into a bookstore some day. And that if not this book, then maybe my next. It doesn't matter, because what I saw was that I had the ability to produce a book of publishable quality, and also, as an editor critiquing my work at the conference confirmed, something of interest.
I think there are some published authors reading this blog who know what vision I'm talking about. I also think there are those unpublished writers, tough critics of their own work, who know what vision I'm talking about. But vision or no vision, my journey continues. And as usual, I write away, a superhero in my own mind performing extraordinary feats. And even if my feats aren't all that extraordinary, well hey, at least those performed by my characters are.